The Broke, the Male, and the Frilly
by DinoDina
Summary: Barty is an unsuccessful robber who kidnaps a beautiful woman when left no other choice. But things aren't what they seem... Barty/Regulus slash, muggle Western!AU. Oneshot. Written for Last Ship Sailing on HPFC.


**Written for the Last Ship Sailing Competition.  
** **Pairing:** Barty/Regulus  
 **Prompts:** 1\. object: seashell, 5. AU: western!AU, 7. emotion: nervous, 9. word: childish, 10. dialogue: "I thought you weren't going to mention that again."  
 **Bonus Prompts:** 1\. second genre: humor, 2. spell: stupefy, 3. dialogue: "I just want to know one thing.", 4. object: hat, 5. word: illuminated  
 **Words:** 3768

 **Thank you to the Wanderers for help and suggestions, and to Rachel for betaing!**

A cloud of dust rose around Barty's boots as he landed onto the sandy ground. His spurs clicked with each step towards the bright tents that were set up several meters outside of the town. A gust of wind blew past him, causing his hair to whip into his face. Barty—

Coughed. Loudly.

There was a reason he covered his face when he was riding, and it wasn't because it was on most of the 'Wanted' posters this side of the Mississippi.

He wiped at his face to get rid of the dust and bemoaned the loss of his bandana, several counties over. He hadn't had a chance to search for it, having been too focused on not getting caught. Now, sure that the particles in his lungs were going to give him pneumonia, Barty took his horse

by the reins and went to see exactly what the tents were.

As he approached, Barty was met with hustle and bustle. His half-questions—since he wasn't given a chance to finish asking them—were met with rudeness, if not open hostility.

Finally, a frazzled, blond-haired man stopped him, and, putting a hand on his arm, said, "Look, man, we're really busy here. Go to the saloon if you're curious."

Barty may have been put off by the dismissal, but he tipped his hat at the pudgy man's retreating back and turned on his heel to walk back to his horse. It wasn't like the guy had been lying.

The saloon seemed like a good idea, at any rate. Barty was parched and tired from his ride, and the morning sun brightly shone down upon him as a reminder of that.

"Come on, Dolores," he said to his horse, patting her neck and guiding her onto the town's main road.

Dolores looked at him dubiously. The observation made Barty laugh at himself, because if anyone had any doubts, it was him. Besides, it wasn't as if his horse could actually have such an opinion; or any opinion for that matter.

He had a reason for his doubts, of course: the very obvious one of being a wanted man. Still, he was thirsty and curious—and he hadn't been caught yet.

The saloon was a large structure in the middle of the town. Already, it was filled to such an extent that Barty had trouble finding a post to tie Dolores to. Then, making himself look at least vaguely presentable, Barty swung open one of the doors.

When all the patrons turned to look at him, he realized that he needn't have bothered with his appearance. Half of the men looked like they'd slept in a barn the previous night, and the other half looked like they hadn't slept at all.

As he walked over to the counter and ordered a whiskey, Barty noticed the beautiful absence of notice boards. By the time he was demanding a second shot, the men had turned away from him.

It was at that moment that Barty realized he wouldn't be able to pay for a third.

He needed money, and soon.

Gloomily, Barty stared into his now-empty glass and refused the offered refill. The irony of the situation wasn't lost on him; he was wanted for robbery in thirty counties, but hadn't a penny to his name. Everything he had stolen he'd either gambled away, or it had been, in turn, stolen from him. He wasn't a very _good_ thief, even if he was infamous.

"…famous Black Brothers' Traveling Show!"

Barty looked up. The other men in the saloon were already looking at the three men in the doorway, one of whom had just spoken. He'd missed the beginning of the announcement, but no one was looking away from the men just yet.

"Multiple performances, multiple days!" a second man spoke.

"If you've seen it, we have it!"

"If you _haven't_ seen it, we have it!"

"Everything you can dream, and even more you _can't_ dream!" the first man said again. "Today, tomorrow, the next day, and many more!"

Black Brothers, now where had he heard that before? Barty turned out the men's enthusiastic advertising. A traveling show explained the colorful tents, and—Barty smiled—traveling shows didn't usually have much protecting their profits.

Barty thanked the barkeep and quietly left the saloon, not wanting to draw too much attention to himself. Dolores was where he'd left her, whinnying happily at his return. However, the smiles turned to huffs when she saw Barty's empty hands. He promised her a feast when they'd be in the clear before leading her away from the saloon.

California, he thought, was where they would go. He'd never been there before and doubted that his face and name were known there.

But, before the travel arrangements, he had to be able to pay for himself. He hoped that the Black money would be enough of a startup.

"Come on, girl," Barty grinned at Dolores. "We've got some business to attend to."

The tents were almost drowning in people when he finally got there. Young, old, male, female; all from the little town and the surrounding areas. Barty supposed that the traveling show was the only interesting thing around these parts.

Barty left Dolores grazing not far from the tents, making sure to not tie her to anything in case he needed to make a quick escape. With both the workers and visitors occupied, it was easy to find the biggest, most decorative tent that wasn't being used for any attractions. When he entered it, he knew that it was the right one.

A large desk stood near one of the fabric walls, three chairs in front of it and one behind it. A futon laid on the other end of the tent, slept-in but neatly covered. Several suitcases stood next to the futon; three were marked with an expensive brand, and two were made of shabby leather.

The furniture in the tent had once been high-end, but it was old and mismatched. A gas lamp was on the desk, placed to light the numerous stacks of paper on it, but currently turned off.

But none of that mattered to Barty, save for the fact that he was the only person in the tent.

He quickly crossed the distance from the entryway to the desk, where he knelt onto the ground. Barty mumbled to himself as he ruffled through the drawers, looking for something that could hold a lot of money.

"Oh, there you are, beautiful," Barty finally whispered to a tin box labelled 'Funds' from the bottom left drawer. "Come to—"

Nothing.

Well, this was just perfect, wasn't it?

Broke, tired, on the run, and stuck in a town that was too small to have a name… frustrated, Barty shoved the box back where it came from. He was just about to close the drawer when a piece of paper—a newspaper clipping—caught his eye.

It must have fallen out during his search, but—oh, this was _interesting_.

The headline caught his eye, but what he found himself focused on was the picture underneath it; two men, probably barely out of their teens, standing side by side. Their features—long black hair, slim figures, haughty smiles—were too similar for them to be anything but brothers. But aside from the picture and the headline, Barty was struck by the resemblance of the taller man to the one that had led the announcements in the saloon several hours ago.

 _BLACK BROTHERS DISOWNED_

Oh, but this was _beautiful_.

Barty remembered the headline, featured in several large newspapers three years ago. Two sons, heirs to the London-based Black Stocks and Loans Co., had been exiled from their Manhattan home due to multiple and frequent reports of illicit activities. The older of the two had notoriously mocked the reporters by saying he was going to become an actor.

Now, however, the Black name had all but disappeared from the press, no one knowing or caring about the two lost gentlemen. But it seemed that the promise had been fulfilled, and Barty strolled down to another tent.

The biggest out of the exhibition tents, it stood in the middle of the grounds and was obviously the main attraction. A line of people stood at the entrance. Some looked impatient but others were just excited. Barty wondered how, with this big an audience, the Black 'Funds' box was completely empty. He took his place in line behind two men who were arguing about the best way to travel. He focused on their conversation for a while, deciding that while he was a train man at heart, the one advocating for horses was much more persuasive.

Well, if this was how he found entertainment, Barty wasn't surprised that the law was only days behind him. It was simple behavior, too simple if he considered his upbringing. He thought of his mother, sitting by the fireplace and knitting; of his father, working at his desk. They weren't able to complain at his career choice, now, both dead for several years.

It would have been sad, except it wasn't.

"Ticket, please," a red-headed woman at the entrance asked, startling Barty from his reminiscing.

"I'm with them," he pointed at the men who had already entered and followed in behind them.

Bless her, the woman had believed him and cheerfully let him through. The tent was even bigger on the inside than it had seemed on the outside. A raised stage stood in the middle of it, about thirty benches arranged in a semi-circle around it. Barty made himself comfortable on one of them, close to an exit.

More people piled into the tent. To Barty's immense relief, few of them settled close to him. After another five minutes, the tent was nearly filled, but not the point of crowdedness.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, to the Black Brothers' Traveling Show!" the same pudgy man who had directed Barty to the saloon announced. He clapped his hands together. "Please welcome our performers to the stage in a rendition of The Princess and the Dragon!"

Barty had never heard of the play before but clapped along with the rest of the audience. To their applause, five performers skipped onto the stage. As they took their places, Barty tuned out; he'd never been much for theater. He had a different reason for being there—and it wasn't noble or artistic, but a guy had to eat—now if only he'd be able to fulfill it.

"Please, oh, gentle knight!" the actress playing the princess simpered. "Save me! Save me! This dragon is going to eat me!"

The knight puffed out his chest, straightened his knees, and raised his sword. The result still left him woefully short, but his voice was strong. "Never fear, fair maiden. Never fear so long as you are with me, for I am the brave Dragon-Killer."

"Oh!" the princess swooned dramatically.

"And know this, my love: I have a great gift," the knight ignored her theatrics and reached into his robes. " _This_ is a magic wand."

"A magic wand?"

"Yes, princess," the knight brandished his wand. "And now: _stupefy_!"

The dragon fell to the stage without a word. Barty rolled his eyes at the play, but saw his opening. As the knight turned away to boast his accomplishment. Barty took advantage of his position next to the stage. He reached up to the princess and took her hand. With another tug, the actress was falling into his arms.

"Move, and you never see her again," he warned the dragon, who had gotten up and was walking towards him.

"What do you want?" the dragon asked in the distinctive voice of one of the Black brothers.

"I want your money."

"We have no money," the dragon gestured to the audience. "You want it, you take it from them."

"Money," Barty repeated coldly. He reached for his gun. "Money or she falls dead."

"Really?" the princess hissed into his ear.

"Shut up," he growled. She did. "Good. Now, sir, please: the money or the girl?"

The dragon simply shrugged, leaving Barty with no other choice. Deftly, he knocked her on the head with his pistol, hoping that the blow was only strong enough to knock her out. The gasps and shouts of the audience followed him as he ran out of the tent.

This was just perfect, wasn't it? Barty looked down at the unconscious woman in his arms. She was heavier than she looked and almost the same height as him. The frills of her pink dress kept getting stuck in his buttons, and be couldn't even berate her for it!

Dolores was not far from the tent he'd just run out of, saddled and ready for anything he would bring. He didn't know if she was ready for another companion, but there was no time like the present to find out. His gentlemanly upbringing protested at throwing the woman across the saddle like a sack of potatoes, but his experience on the run was yelling at him to get out, and fast.

In the end, he laid the woman across the seat and galloped away.

Barty let Dolores slow to a trot when she got tired. At this point, he lifted the woman into a sitting position to recline against him. She was still unconscious, which was worrying, and Barty decided to stop as soon as he saw a town. He was a robber, sure, but he wasn't a murderer.

The next town was larger than the one he was running from. There was no doubt that his face would be plastered on every tree, post, and notice board, but Barty's conscience was unusually loud that day.

He entered the town on horseback, arranging the woman into a more tender position against his chest. When he saw a hotel that looked semi-presentable, he stood Dolores at a post, pulled his hat over his face, and heaved the woman into his arms.

"Please help me!" Barty shouted, bursting into the hotel and staggering to the desk. "Please, it's my wife!"

"Sir, is everything alright?" the young girl who ran out to meet him asked (rather stupidly, in his opinion).

"No, it's my wife," he cried again. "She fell off the horse as we were riding, and I barely got her here. She's not awake, please help me!"

With the girl's directions, Barty was able to get the woman onto a large bed in one of the more expensive rooms. It was free, due to his theatrics, and he hoped that it would stay that way. She left the room immediately, only to return with several towels and a basin of cold water.

"Should I call for a doctor?" she asked uncertainly.

"No," Barty replied against his better judgement. "Not yet. I don't know if it's bad. I'm sorry if I scared you, it's just… I was scared, myself."

"I…"

"Leave us, please," he waved towards the door. "I'll call for you if I need any help. I'd like to be with my wife now, if you don't mind."

At that, the girl almost scurried out of the room, making Barty smile as he remembered when he had been that skittish and subservient. When he turned back to the woman, the smile slid off his face. Pale and unmoving, she almost looked dead. But she wasn't dead, he knew by the rise and fall of her chest; and she wouldn't _be_ dead, not because of him.

He wet one of the towels and gently ran it across her brow. There was a thin trickle of blood behind her ear, where he'd hit her, but the wound itself had already scabbed over. Barty cleaned it off nevertheless, questioning why he'd ever thought it alright to attack a woman.

"Please wake up," he whispered. "I don't know who you are, but please wake up."

Again, he washed her face with the towel. Several tense minutes passed, in which he had contemplated the various ways he would be executed for her murder and the various ways he would burn in hell.

When, finally— _finally_ —the woman opened her eyes, she groaned.

"Are you alright?" Barty asked immediately, the bundle of nerves in his stomach dissipating, helping her sit up against the headboard. "Do you need anything? Are you—"

"You're the one that attacked me," the woman said crossly in a… distinctly un-womanly voice.

"I… um… yeah," Barty stared in confusion. "Yeah, sorry about that. Um… may I ask: why aren't you female?"

"Because the real female decided to give birth and my brother thought that it would be hilarious to stick me in a dress," the princess crossed her—his arms.

"So that's not how it usually goes?"

"No, of course not," the princess scoffed. "I do the lighting, mostly. For nighttime shows and stuff. You know, candles, gas lamps.,, make sure everythings working, properly illuminated, and no one burns to death."

Barty nodded. "Sorry for kidnapping you."

"Yeah, about that… um, we can't pay you," the princess looked down. "At all."

"What do you mean? I've seen how many people come to your shows, you must be filthy rich!"

"Well—"

"Come on, you can't tell me there's _nothing_!"

The princess looked up at him and smiled. "No. Thing."

"That's…" Barty got up from the bed and kicked at one of its wooden legs. "Damn it! I held up a show, showed my face, almost killed you, kidnapped you, and you're telling me there's going to be no ransom? Princess, I was counting on you!"

"It's Regulus, thank you very much," Princess replied coldly. "And given that you're the outlaw, I don't think you're in a position to complain. You dragged yourself into this, not me."

"Damn it!"

Barty growled at the man in the bed again. Now that he knew, he wondered why he'd been fooled in the first place. There was a slight shadow of stubble on Princess's face, which was far too angular to be female. The dress's frills had covered the absence of breasts, but surely Barty wasn't so oblivious.

He kicked the bed again. If nothing else, it would alleviate his anger at the situation. He had hoped to get some money from the holdup, but the audience hadn't been willing. His only hope had been ransom after that, and now he was stuck with a potentially seriously injured, very-much- _not_ -female companion.

"You're being very childish," said companion scolded. "And stop kicking the bed—I'm in it and I'm very much injured."

"I'm sorry I hit you," Barty responded with an exaggerated bow, still angry about the turn of events. "Granted, I'm less sorry now that I know you're not a woman, but I still apologize."

"Listen, I know I'm still dressed like a woman and all, but can we just agree not to mention it?" Princess asked, and Barty could see the discomfort when he glared at the frills. "I already have the headache from hell, I don't need my pride to be in pain as well."

"Yeah, sure, Princess," Barty nodded.

"I thought you weren't going to mention that again?" Princess raised his eyebrows. "And don't you have other things to do, anyway? Like, run from the law or something?"

"I've been doing that for the past few months."

Barty moved to kick the bed again, but remembered what Regulus had asked. He kicked the bedside table instead, which had the exact same effect. Frustrated, he hung his head into his hands and sat on the bed again. With how his life was going, he would never get to California. Instead he'd be in jail, and that was if he'd get lucky; he really didn't want to hang.

"You alright?" Regulus asked when he didn't resurface after a few moments.

"I just want to know one thing," Barty said defeatedly. "Do I have a chance?"

"I…"

"I'm talking to a man I kidnapped because I thought he was a woman, and now I know I'm not getting any ransom for you. I'll let you go, and they'll all come for me, and I'll never be able to escape this," Barty sighed again. "I just want to know if I can walk away from all this."

His decision to turn to crime had been a rash one. Having gambled away his inheritance, Barty had thought he had no other choice. He didn't like getting dust everywhere from horse travel, he didn't like being scared to enter civilization, and he certainly didn't like being alone.

But now he _wasn't_ alone.

"Do you think they'll rescue you?" he asked.

"If I tell them to," Regulus confirmed.

"Do you _want_ to be rescued?" Barty swallowed when he didn't get a response. "It's just… I'm going to California, if I can get away from all this, that is, but I don't want to go alone. If you want to come with me—I'm a wanted man, so it'll have to be by horse, and I don't have a change of clothes for you, so—"

"Yes."

"Excuse me?"

"Yes."

Half-sitting against the headboard and smiling, Regulus looked more alive than he had for the past four hours. Barty stared at him for good measure, his eyes tracing the frilly dress up to Regulus's face. There, he focused on his eyes, bright and gray.

"Yes," Regulus repeated. "I want to go to California. With you."

"I didn't knock you that hard, did I?" Barty joked.

"No," Regulus shook his head. "Oh, ow… probably shouldn't do that again. Where was I? Right, California. No, I want to go there, always have."

Barty pressed the towel to Regulus's forehead again and winced along with him. "Really?"

"Yeah," Regulus procured a small chain from his frills and handed the pendant on it to Barty. "See the shell? It's from California. Our old housekeeper, when I was fifteen, moved there with his wife, and they sent it to me because I wasn't allowed to visit. It's… it's just a memento, but I've always wanted to go for as long as I can remember."

"Then let's go."

"Let's go," Regulus echoed. "The water's supposed to be calm. Nothing like New York water. Clear, and blue, and warm… I've spent too much time in the plains."

"I've never seen the ocean," Barty replied. "Would be nice to see it, don't you think?"

"Yes, it would."

Barty looked at the man whose injury he was suddenly caring for with no ulterior motive. Regulus simply looked back at him, excited and no longer apprehensive.


End file.
